Adèle Dubois

"I am convinced", he said, "by what I have observed during your absence, M. Dubois, that the arrangement you propose, is the only one, which will secure Marie's happiness. I will say, however, honestly, that it is far enough from what I designed for her. But the manliness and honorable feeling you have manifested in the affair, make me more willing to resign her to you than I should otherwise have been, as I cannot but hope that, although deprived of the advantages of wealth and station, she will yet have the faithful affection of a true and noble heart". This was enough for us both and more than we expected".

"But a new difficulty arose. Upon observing the troubled and uncertain state of affairs in France, your father became convinced that his chances to secure the ends he had in view, would be greater in the new world. After a brief period of deliberation, he fixed upon a plan of going to British America, and purchasing there a large tract of land, thus founding an estate, the value of which he anticipated would increase with the growth of the country".

"To this arrangement, the Count was strenuously opposed. There was a pretty embowered residence, a short distance from the chateau, on the portion of the estate I had inherited from my father. There he wished us to live. In short, he wished to retain us near himself. But your father, with the enterprise and enthusiasm of youth, persisted in his purpose. At last, my uncle gave a reluctant consent and purchased my share of the estate of Rossillon".

"Not to my surprise, but to my great gratification, soon after this, the gentle Countess de Morny consented to become the Countess de Rossillon".

"Surrounded by a joyous group of friends, one bright September morning, in the chapel of St. Marie, they were married, and then the priest united me to your father. The sweet mother looked down from above the altar and seemed to give us a smiling blessing. We were very happy, my Adèle".

"In a few days we set sail for New Brunswick. We arrived at St. John in October and there spent the following winter. In the spring, your father explored this region and made a large purchase of land here. At that time it seemed a desirable investment. But you see how it is, my Adèle. All has resulted strangely different from what we anticipated. And somehow it has always been difficult to change our home. From time to time, we have thought of it,—obstacles have arisen and—we are still here".

"But where is the Count de Rossillon, mother? It is twenty years, is it not, since you left France? Does he yet live?"

"Ah! ma chère, we know not. After our departure from France we received frequent letters from him and the dear Countess until five years since, when the letters ceased. They constantly urged our return to Rossillon. You remember well the thousand pretty toys and gifts they showered upon your childhood?"

"Ah! yes, mother, I remember. And you have not heard a word from them for five years!"

"Not a word".

"Do you wish to go back to France, mother?"

"It is the only wish of my heart that is unsatisfied. I am full of ceaseless yearnings for the beautiful home of my youth. Would that we could return there. But it may not be. France is in a state of turmoil. I know not what fate has befallen either my uncle, or his estate. He may be dead. Or, if living, he may no longer be the proprietor of beautiful Rossillon. We cannot learn how it is".

"Cannot my father go to France and ascertain what has happened there? Perhaps, mother, he might find a home for you once more in your dear Picardy".

"He is thinking of it even now, ma fille".

"Is he, mother? Then be comforted. You will see that sweet home once more, I feel assured".

She rose and flung her arms around Mrs. Dubois, exclaiming, "Dear, beautiful mother!"

An hour later, Adèle might have been seen, wandering about in Micah's grove, her mind and heart overflowing with new, strange thoughts and emotions. She had just received the first full revelation of the early life of her parents. Her knowledge of it before had been merely vague and confused. Now a new world was opened for her active fancy to revel in, and fresh fountains of sympathy to pour forth, for those whom she so fondly loved. She sighed as she recalled that yearning, wistful look upon her mother's face, in those hours when her thoughts seemed far away from the present scene, and grieved that her gentle spirit should so long have suffered the exile's woe.

For weeks after, she continually fell into reverie. In her day dreams she wandered through the saloons and corridors of the old chateau, where her mother had spent so many years, chequered with sunshine and shade. She rambled over the park and cooled her fevered head and hands in the water that dripped from the tresses of the marble Aphrodite. Fancy took her over the route of foreign travel, her mother had pursued with the Count de Rossillon. She longed herself to visit those regions of classic and romantic interest. During the long, golden, September afternoons, she spent hours, in the Madonna room, questioning her mother anew respecting the scenes and events of her past life, and listening eagerly to her replies. The young examine distant objects as through a prism. Adèle's imagination invested these scenes and events with rainbow splendors and revelled in the wealth and beauty, she had herself partially created. The new world thus opened to her was infinitely superior to the one in which she held her commonplace, humdrum existence. She never wearied of her mother's reminiscences of the past. Each fresh description, each recalled item of that history, added to the extent and the charms of her new world.

Mrs. Dubois herself felt a degree of pleasure in thus living over again her former life with one, who entered artlessly and enthusiastically into its joys and sorrows. She also experienced an infinite relief in pouring out to her sympathizing child the regrets and longings which had, for so long a period, been closely pent in her own breast. Mother and daughter were drawn nearer to each other day by day, and those hours of sweet communion were among the purest, the happiest of their lives.

CHAPTER XI.

When he had taken leave and closed the door, Adèle turned to her mother and said, "I have suspected for several days that things were not going on properly in that sick-room. Last night, I became convinced of it. I cannot stop to tell you about it now, mamma, as there is no time to lose with our invalid. But Mrs. McNab must decamp. I have it all arranged, and I promise you I will not offend Aunt Patty, but will dismiss her peaceably. Do trust her to me once, mamma. Please go now and tell her there is a message waiting for her in the dining-room. Stay with Mr. Brown just one half hour, and you shall have no more trouble to-day".

"But, ma chère, you have no patience with Aunt Patty. I am afraid you will be too abrupt with her".

"Don't fear, mamma, I promise you I will not outrage Aunt Patty. Please go".

"Ah! well! I will go", said Mrs. Dubois.

Mrs. McNab soon made her appearance in the dining-room, and, with some degree of trepidation, inquired who wanted her there.

"Micah was here an hour ago", replied Adele, "and said Mrs. Campbell sent him here to ask you to come and help her. Four of her children are sick with the measles and she is nearly down herself, in consequence of fatigue and watching. I did not speak to you then, as I supposed you were sleeping. I told Micah I had no doubt you would come, as there are enough here to take care of the sick gentleman, and Mrs. Campbell needs you so much".

"Weel, Miss Ady", said Mrs. McNab, twitching violently a stray lock of her flaming hair and tucking it beneath her cap, "I dinna ken how you could tak' upon yourself to send such a ward as that, when Mr. Brown is just on the creesis of his fever and not one of ye as knows how-to tak' care o' him more than a nussin' babe".

"Ah! indeed! Aunt Patty", said Adèle, pretending to be offended, "do you say that my mother knows nothing about sickness, when you are aware she has carried my father through two dangerous fevers and me through all the diseases of babyhood and childhood?"

"That mon 'ull never get weel if I leave him noo, when I've the run of the muddesons and directions. A strange hand 'ull put everything wrang and he'll dee, that's a'".

"And if he does die", said Adèle, "you will not be responsible. You have done what you could for him and now you are called away. I am sure you will not permit Mrs. Campbell to suffer, when she gave you a comfortable home in her house all last winter".

"Weel, Mrs. Cawmmells' a gude woman enough and I'm sorry the bairns are sick. But what's the measles to a fever like this, and the mon nigh dead noo?" Aunt Patty's face flushed scarlet.

"Aunt Patty", said Adèle, very slowly and decidedly, "Mr. Brown is my father's guest. We are accountable for his treatment, and not you. My mother and I are going to take charge of him now. I sent word to Mrs. Campbell that there was nothing to prevent you from coming to assist her. You have had your share of the fatigue and watching with our invalid. Now we are going to relieve you". There was something in Adèle's determined air, that convinced Mrs. McNab the time for her to yield had at length come, and that it was of no use for her to contest the field longer. Feeling sure of this, there were various reasons, occurring to her on the instant, that restrained her from a further expression of her vexation. After a few moments of sullen silence, she rose and said—

"Weel! I'll go and put my things tegither, that's in Mr. Brown's room, and tell Mrs. Doobyce aboot the muddesons and so on".

"That is not necessary", said Adèle; "The Dr. has given me directions about the medicines. Here is breakfast all ready for you, Aunt Patty. Sit down and eat it, while it is hot. I will go to the gentleman's room and gather up what you have left there. Come, sit down now".

Adèle placed a pot of hot coffee and a plate of warm rolls upon the table.

Mrs. McNab stood for a moment, much perplexed between her impulse to go back to Mr. Brown's room and unburden her mind to Mrs. Dubois, and the desire to partake immediately of the tempting array upon the breakfast-table. Finally, her material wants gained the ascendency and she sat down very composedly to a discussion of the refreshments, while Adèle, anticipating that result, hastened up stairs to collect the remaining insignia of that worthy woman's departing greatness.

Mrs. Dubois, on going to Mr. Brown's room, had found the atmosphere close and suffocating, and that gentleman, tossing restlessly on the bed from side to side, talking to himself in a wild delirium. She left the door ajar and began bathing his fevered head in cool water. This seemed to soothe him greatly and he sank back almost immediately into a deathlike slumber, in which he lay when Adèle entered the chamber.

Cautioned by her mother's uplifted finger, she moved about noiselessly, until she had made up a large and miscellaneous package of articles; then descended quietly, inwardly resolving that the "Nuss" as she called herself, should not for several weeks at least, revisit the scene of her late operations.

Mrs. McNab was still pursuing her breakfast, and Adèle sat down, with what patience she could command, to wait for the close.

"You'll be wanting some ain to watch to-night, Miss Ady", said Aunt Patty.

"Yes, Mr. Norton will do that. He has offered many times to watch. He will be very kind and attentive to the invalid, I know".

"I s'pose he'll do as weel as he knows hoo, but I havena much faith in a mon that sings profane sangs and ca's 'em relegious heems, to a people that need the bread o' life broken to 'em".

"Have you heard him sing, Aunt Patty? I did not know you had attended his meetings at the grove".

"I havena, surely. But when the windows were up, I heard him singin' them jigs and reels, and I expectin' every minut to see the men, women, and bairns a dancin'".

"They sit perfectly still, while he is singing", said Adèle, "and listen as intently as if they heard an angel. His voice is sometimes like a flute, sometimes like a trumpet. Did you hear the words he sang?"

"The wards! yes! them's the warst of a!" said Mrs. McNab, expanding her nostrils with a snort of contempt. "They bear na resemblance whatever to the Psalms o' David. I should as soon think o' singing the' sangs o' Robby Burns at a relegious service as them blasphemous things".

"Oh! Aunt Patty, you are wrong. He sings beautiful hymns, and he tells these people just what they need. I hope they will listen to him and reform".

"Weel he's a very light way o' carryin himself, for a minister o' the gospel, I must say".

"He is cheerful, to be sure, and sympathizes with the people, and helps them in their daily labor sometimes, if that is what you refer to. I am sure that is right, and I like him for it", said Adèle.

"Weel! I see he's a' in a' with you, noo", said Mrs. McNab, at last rising from the table. "I'll go up noo and tak' leave o' the patient".

"No, no", said Adèle. "He is sleeping. He must not be disturbed on any account. His life may depend upon this slumber remaining unbroken".

She rose involuntarily and placed herself against the door leading to the stairs.

Mrs. McNab grew red with anger, at being thus foiled. Turning aside to hide her vexation, she waddled across the room, took her bonnet and shawl from a peg she had appropriated to her special use, and proceeded to invest herself for her departure.

"Weel! I s'pose ye'll expect me to come when ye send for me", said she, turning round in the doorway with a grotesque distortion of her face intended for an ironical smile.

"That is just as you please, Aunt Patty. We shall be happy to see you whenever you choose to come. Good-by".

"Good by", said Mrs. McNab in a quacking, quavering, half resentful tone, as she closed the door behind her.

Adèle went immediately to the adjoining pantry, called Bess, a tidy looking mulatto, gave her directions for the morning work and then went up stairs to relieve her mother. Mrs. Dubois made signs to her that she preferred not to resign her post. But Adèle silently insisted she should do so.

After her mother had left the room, she placed herself near the bedside that she might observe the countenance and the breathing of the invalid. His face was pale as that of death. His breath came and went almost imperceptibly. The physician had excluded every ray of sunshine and a hush, like that of the grave, reigned in the apartment. In her intercourse with the people of the settlement, Adèle had often witnessed extreme illness and several dying scenes; but she had never before felt herself so oppressed and awestruck as now. As she sat there alone with the apparently dying man, she felt that a silent, yet mighty struggle was going on between the forces of life and death. She feared death would obtain the victory. By a terrible fascination, her eyes became fixed on the ghastly face over which she fancied she could perceive, more and more distinctly, shadows cast by the hand of the destroyer. Every moment she thought of recalling her mother, but feared that the slightest jarring movement of the atmosphere might stop at once that feeble respiration. So she remained, watching terror stricken, waiting for the last, absolute silence,—the immovable repose.

Suddenly, she heard a long, deep-drawn sigh. She saw the head of the sufferer turn gently on one side, pressing the pillow. A color—the faintest in the world, stole over the features. The countenance gradually settled into a calm, natural expression. The respiration became stronger and more regular. In a few moments, he slept as softly as a little child.

Adèle's heart gave one bound, and then for a moment stood still. She uttered a sigh of relief, but sank back in her chair, wearied by excess of emotion. She felt instinctively, that the crisis had been safely passed, that there was hope for the invalid.

Then, for a long time, her mind was occupied with thoughts respecting death and the beyond.

Suddenly a shadow, flitting across the curtained window recalled her to the present scene.

Ah! what a mercy, she thought, that Aunt Patty did not kill him, before I discovered her beautiful mode of nursing sick people. No wonder he has been crazed all this time, with those strange manœuvres of hers!

On the previous, night, Adèle had been the last of the family to retire. Stealing noiselessly past the door of the sick-room, which was somewhat ajar, her steps were arrested by hearing Aunt Patty, whose voice was pitched on a very high key, singing some old Scotch song. Thinking this rather a strange method of composing the nervous system of a delirious patient, she stood and listened. Up, far up, into the loftiest regions of sound, went Aunt Patty's cracked and quavering voice, and then it came down with a heavy, precipitous fall into a loud grumble and tumble below. She repeated again and again, in a most hilarious tone, the words—

"Let us go, lassie, go,
To the braes of Balquhither,
 Where the blaebarries grow.
'Mang the bonnie Highland heather".

In the midst of this, Adèle heard a deep groan. Then she heard the invalid say in a feeble, deprecating tone—

"Ah! why do you mock me? Am I not miserable enough?"

Mrs. McNab stopped a moment, then replied in a sharp voice, "Mockin' ye! indeed, it's na such thing. If ye had an atom o' moosic in ye, ye wad ken at ance, its a sweet Scotch sang I'm singin' to ye. I've sung mony a bairn to sleep wi' it".

There was no reply to this remark. All was quiet for a moment, when Adèle, fancying she heard the clinking of a spoon against the side of a tumbler, leaned forward a little and looked through the aperture made by the partially opened door. The nurse was sitting by the fire, in her huge headgear, wrapped in a shawl and carefully stirring, what seemed, by the odor exhaled, to be whiskey. Her face was very red and her eyes wide open, staring at the coals.

The sufferer uttered some words, which Adèle could not distinguish, in an excited voice.

"I tell ye, there isna ony hope for ye", said Mrs. McNab, who, for some reason, not apparent, seemed to be greatly irritated by whatever remarks her patient made.

"There isna ony hope for thum that hasna been elected. Ye might talk an' pray a' yer life and 'twould do ye na gude, I dinna ken where you've been a' yer life, not to ken that afore. With a' yer furbelowed claithes and jewelled watch and trinkets, ye dinna ken much aboot the gospel. And then, this new preacher a' tellin' the people they can be saved ony minut they choose to gie up their hearts to the Lord! Its a' tegither false. I was taught in the Kirk o' Scotland, that a mon might pray and pray a' his days, and then he wadna be sure o' bein' saved. That's the blessed doctrine I was taught. If ye are to be saved, ye will be. There noo, go to sleep. I'll read the ward o' God to ye".

Alas! for the venerable church of old Scotia, had she many such exponents of her doctrine as Mrs. McNab.

Having thus relieved her mind, the nurse swallowed the contents of the tumbler. She then rose, drew a chair towards a table, on which stood a shaded lamp and took from thence a Bible; but finding her eyesight rather dim, withdrew to a cot in one corner of the room, threw herself down and was soon sleeping, and snoring prodigiously.

Adèle, who had, during the enactment of this scene, been prevented from rushing in and deposing Mrs. McNab at once, only by a fear of exciting the patient to a degree of frenzy, stole in quietly, bathed his head with some perfumed water, smoothed his pillow and seated herself, near the fire, where she remained until morning.

Mr. Brown slept only during the briefest intervals and was turning restlessly and talking incoherently all night.

Soon after day dawn, Aunt Patty began to bestir herself, but before she had observed her presence, Adèle had escaped to her own room. Soon, hearing Micah's voice, she went to the kitchen. She found his message from Mrs. Campbell, just the excuse she needed to enable her to dispose of Mrs. McNab. She had become quite convinced that whatever good qualities that worthy woman might possess as a nurse, her unfortunate proclivities towards the whiskey bottle, united with her rigid theological tenets, rendered it rather unsafe to trust her longer with a patient, whose case required the most delicate care and attention.

The queer, old clock in the dining-room struck one. Adèle heard it. She was still watching. Mr. Brown still slept that quiet sleep. Just then, Mrs. Dubois entered, took her daughter's hand, led her to the door, and whispered—

"Now, take some food and go to rest. I will not leave him". Adèle obeyed.

CHAPTER XII.

Having confidence in Mrs. McNab's skill as a nurse, she had not suspected that her partiality for a hot dose at night, would interfere with her faithfulness to her charge. Not having communicated with Adèle, she did not yet know why it had been deemed important to dispose of her so summarily, and she secretly wondered how it had been accomplished with so little ado. When informed, she approved Adèle's decisive action.

Mr. Norton had fully shared the interest felt by the family in the stranger, and was happy to relieve Mrs. Dubois in the evening and to remain by his bedside during the night. Since his first interview with Mr. Brown, on the day of his arrival, he had felt that, in accordance-with the vows by which he had bound himself to the great Master, the unfortunate stranger had a claim on him, which he resolved to fulfil at the earliest moment possible. He had had no opportunity as yet, of executing his purpose, Mrs. McNab having guarded the door of the sick-room like a lioness watching her cubs. When she had by chance permitted him to enter, he had found her patient wandering in mind and entirely incapable of coherent conversation.

Meantime, he had prayed earnestly for his recovery and secretly felicitated himself with the hope of leading him to a rock of refuge,—a tower of defence, which would secure him from sin and sorrow.

Mr. Brown continued to sleep so peacefully during the night, that Mr. Norton, whose hopes for his recovery had been increasing every hour, was not surprised at the dawn of day to perceive his eyes open, examining the objects in the room, with the air of a person just awakened from a bewildering dream.

He gazed curiously at the heavy, carved bureau of dark wood, at the grotesque little table, covered with vials and cups, at the cabinet filled with specimens of foreign skill and art, at the Venetian carpet and at last, his eyes remained fixed upon a black crucifix, placed in the centre of the mantle. He uttered a deep sigh.

Mr. Norton, convinced that he had fully collected his scattered thoughts and become aware of the realities of his situation, stepped gently forward from his station behind the bed and taking Mr. Brown's hand, said, in a cheerful tone, "How do you find yourself, my dear sir?"

After a momentary surprise, Mr. Brown replied—

"Better, I think, sir, better".

"Yes sir. You are better. I thank God for it. And also for this hospitable roof and the kind care these people have taken of you in your illness. The Lord's angel must have guided your steps to this house, and mine also".

"This house, sir! whose is it?"

"It belongs to Mr. Dubois".

"Ah! I recollect. I came here with him and have been ill several days. And the country is—"

"Miramichi", said Mr. Norton. "A desperate region sir. A land where the darkness may be felt".

Just then a ray of red, burning sunshine shot into the room. The good man modified his remark, exclaiming, "Morally, sir, morally".

Observing a cloud of anxiety stealing over Mr. Brown's face, he went on.

"Now, my dear sir, let me tell you—you have been very ill for two weeks. The danger in your case is now over, but you are extremely weak, and need, for a time, the attention of the two lovely nurses, who watched over you yesterday and are ready to bestow kind care upon you again to-day. You must lay aside, for the present, all troubles of mind and estate, and devote yourself to getting well. When you are somewhat stronger, I have excellent things to tell you".

"Excellent things!" exclaimed Mr. Brown, excitedly,—a flush overspreading his wan features. "Has the traitor been found?" Then with a profound sigh of disappointment, he uttered feebly—

"Ah! you do not know".

"I do not know what your particular trouble is, my dear sir, but I know of a way to relieve you of that, or any other burden that weighs on your spirits. I will inform you when you get stronger. What you need now, is a cup of oatmeal gruel, mingled with a tea-spoonful of wine, which shall immediately be presented to you by the youthful queen of this mansion".

He turned to go and call Adèle. But Mr. Brown motioned him to remain.

"Do you reside here, sir?" he asked, in accents indicating great prostration and despondency.

"No, sir. I arrived here only a few hours before you. I am from the State of ——. You are also from that region, and I shall not leave you until I see you with your face set towards your native soil. Now, my dear sir, be quiet. Perhaps your life depends on it".

"My life is not worth a penny to anybody".

"It is worth ten thousand pounds and more to your friends. Be quiet, I say".

And Mr. Norton went out of the room, gently but decisively. Mr. Brown's eyes followed him as he closed the door.

Already he felt the magnetic power of that good and sympathizing heart, of that honest, upright soul, which inspired by heavenly love and zeal, cast rays of life and happiness wherever it moved.

Moreover, he was too much prostrated in mind and body, vigorously to grasp the circumstances of his situation, whatever they might be. Pain and debility had dulled his faculties and the sharpness of his sorrow also. The good missionary's cheery voice and heartfelt smile soothed, for the time, his wounded spirit. It was as if he had taken a sip of Lethe and had come into the land in which it always seemeth afternoon.

Soon Adele opened the door and approaching the table gently, placed upon it the gruel. When she turned her eyes full of sympathy and kindness upon him and inquired for his health, he started with a remembrance that gave him both pain and pleasure. She reminded him strangely of the being he loved more than any other on earth—his sister. He answered her question confusedly.

She then raised his head upon the pillow with one hand and presented the cup to his lips with the other. He drank its contents, mechanically.

Adele proceeded noiselessly to arrange the somewhat disordered room, and after placing a screen between it and the bed, raised a window, through winch the warm September atmosphere wandered in, indolently bathing his weary brow. As he felt its soft undulations on his face, and looking around the pleasant apartment observed the graceful motions of his youthful nurse, the scenes through which he had recently passed, appeared like those of an ugly nightmare, and floated away from his memory. The old flow of his life seemed to come back again and he gave himself up to pleasant dreams.

Mr. Brown continued thenceforward to improve in health, though slowly. Mr. Norton slept on a cot in his room every night and spent a part of every day with him, assisting in his toilet, conversing with him of the affairs, business and political, of their native State, and reading to him occasionally from books furnished by Mr. Dubois's library.

He informed Mr. Brown of his mission to this wild region of Miramichi, and the motives that induced it. That gentleman admired the purity and singleness of purpose which had led this man, unfavored indeed by a careful classical culture, but possessing many gifts and much practical knowledge, thus to sacrifice himself in this abyss of ignorance and sin. He was drawn to him daily by the magnetism which a strong, yet heroic and genial soul always exercises upon those who approach it.

In a few days he had, without any effort of the good man and involuntarily on his own part, confided to him the heavy weight that troubled his conscience.

"Ah!" said Mr. Norton, his eyes full of profound sorrow, and probing the wound now laid open to the quick, "it was a terrible weakness to have yielded thus to the wiles of that artful foreigner. May Heaven forgive you!"

Surprised and shocked at this reception of his confession, Mr. Brown, who had hoped-for consolation or counsel from his sympathizing companion, felt cut to the heart. His countenance settled into an expression of utter despair.

"Why have you sought so diligently to restore me to health,—to a disgraced and miserable existence? You must have known, from the delirous words of my illness, of which you have told me, that life would be a worthless thing to me. You should have permitted me the privilege of death", said he bitterly.

"The privilege of death!" said Mr. Norton. "Don't you know, my dear sir, that a man unprepared to live, is also unprepared to die? Every effort I have put forth during your illness has been for the purpose of saving you for a happy life here, and for a blissful immortality".

"A happy life here! For me, who have deeply offended and disgraced my friends and my pure and unstained ancestry!"

"It is true, in an hour of weakness and irresolution, you have sinned against your friends. But you have sinned all your life against a Being infinitely higher that earthly friends. Your conduct has disturbed family pride and honor, and thereby destroyed your peace. But, do you never think of your transgressions against God? For a world, I would not have had you present yourself before His just tribunal, with your sins against Him unrepented of. Is there no other thought in your heart, than to escape the misery of the present?"

Mr. Brown was silent. Mr. Norton continued.

"It is utter weakness and cowardice, in order to escape present discomfort and wretchedness, to rush from this world into another, without knowing what we are to meet there".

A flush of resentment at these words covered the invalid's face. Just then Adèle knocked on the door, and said a poor woman below wished to see Mr. Norton.

He rose instantly, went towards Mr. Brown, and taking his thin hand between his own and pressing it affectionately, said, "Look back upon your past life,—look into your heart. Believe me, my dear sir, I am your friend".

Then he went to obey the summons, and Mr. Brown was left alone.

The emotion of anger towards his benefactor soon passed away. He had been trained early in life to religious truth, and he knew that Mr. Norton presented to him the stern requisitions of that truth, only in friendliness and love. The good man was absent several hours, and the time was employed, as well as the solitude of several subsequent days, by Mr. Brown, in looking into his heart and into his past life. He found there many things he had not even suspected. He saw clearly, that he had hitherto held himself amenable only to the judgment of the world. Its standard of propriety, taste, honor, had been his. He had not looked higher.

His friend Mr. Norton, on the contrary, held himself accountable to God's tribunal. His whole conversation, conduct, and spirit, showed the ennobling effect which that sublime test of character had upon him. In fine, he perceived that the basis of his own character had been false and therefore frail. The superstructure he had raised upon it, had been fair and imposing to the world, but, when its strength came to be tried, it had given way and fallen. He felt that he had neglected his true interests, and had been wholly indifferent to the just claims of the only Being, who could have sustained him in the hour of temptation. He saw his past errors, he moaned over them, but alas! he considered it too late to repair them. His life, he believed to be irretrievably lost, and he wished only to commit himself to the mercy of God, and die.

For a few days, he remained reserved and sunk in a deep melancholy.

At length, Mr. Norton said to him, "I trust you are not offended with me, my dear sir, for those plain words I addressed to you the other day. Be assured that though stern, they were dictated by my friendship for you and my duty towards God".

"Offended! my good friend. O no. What you said, is true. But it is too late for me to know it. Through the merits of Christ, I hope for the pardon of my sins. I am willing to live and suffer, if it is His behest. But you perceive my power to act for the cause of truth is gone. My past has taken away all good influence from my future course. Who will accept my testimony now? I have probably lost caste in my own circle, and have, doubtless, lost my power to influence it, even should I be received back to its ties. In society, I am a dishonored man. I cannot have the happiness of working for the truth,—for Christ. My power is destroyed".

"You are wrong, entirely wrong, my dear sir. Have courage. Shall not that man walk erect and joyous before the whole world, whatever his past may have been, whose sins have been washed away in the blood of Christ and whose soul is inspired by a determination to abide by faith in Him forever? I say, yes. Do the work of God. He will take care of you. Live, with your eye fixed on Him, ready to obey His will, seeking His heavenly aid, and you can face the frowns of men, while serene peace fills your heart".

Thus cheered and strengthened from day to day, Mr. Brown gained gradually in health and hope. Especially did Mr. Norton strive to invigorate his faith. He justly thought, it was only a strong grasp on eternal realities, that could supply the place of those granite qualities of the soul, so lacking in this lovable, fascinating young man.

CHAPTER XIII.

It was only when the shadows of afternoon began to lengthen and the sun's rays to strike obliquely through the stately trees of the Grove, that they were able to gather there and listen to the voice of the missionary. He had so far succeeded in his work, as to be able to draw the people together, from a considerable distance around, and their number increased daily.

On the opposite bank of the river, half way up a slight eminence, stood a small stone chapel. Tasteful and elegant in its proportions, it presented a picturesque and attractive appearance. There, once on each Sunday, the service of the Church of England was read, together with a brief discourse by a clergyman of that order.

Behind the chapel, and near the top of the hill, was a large stone cottage surrounded by pretty grounds and with ample stable conveniences. It was the Rectory.

The Chapel and Rectory had been built and the clergyman was sustained, at a somewhat large cost, by the Establishment, for the purpose of enlightening and Christianizing the population of the parish of ——.

Unfortunately, the incumbent was not the self-sacrificing person needed to elevate such a community. Though ministering at the altar of God, he had no true religious feeling, no disinterested love for men. He was simply a man of the world, a bon vivant, a horse jockey and sportsman, who consoled himself in the summer and autumn for his exile in that barbarous region, by filling his house with provincial friends, who helped him while away the time in fishing, hunting, and racing. The winter months, he usually spent at Fredericton, and during that interval no service was held in the chapel. Of late, the few, who were in the habit of attending the formal worship there, had forsaken it for the more animating services held in the Grove.

Not only the habitual church-goers, but the people of the parish at large, began to feel the magnetizing influence, and were drawn towards the same spot. For a week or more past, late in the afternoons on which the meetings were held, little skiffs might have been seen putting off from the opposite shore, freighted with men, women, and children, crossing over to hear the wonderful preachings of the missionary.

What attracted them thither? Not surely the love of the truth.

Most of them disliked it in their hearts, and had not even began to think of practising it in their lives. They were interested in the man. They were, in some sort, compelled by the magical power he held over them, to listen to entreaties and counsels, similar to those to which they had often hitherto turned a deaf ear.

Mr. Norton spent much of the time with them, going from house to house, partaking of their rude fare, sympathizing in their joys and sorrows, occasionally lending them a helping hand in their toils, and aiding them sometimes by his ingenuity and skill as an artisan. They found in him a hearty, genial, and unselfish friend. Hence when he appeared among them at the Grove, their personal interest in him secured a certain degree of order and decorum, and caused them to listen to him respectfully.

Even beyond this, he held a power over them, by means of his natural and persuasive eloquence, enlivened by varied and graphic illustrations, drawn from objects within their ken, and by the wonderful intonations of his powerful and harmonious voice. He began his work by presenting to them the love of Christ and the winning promises of the gospel.

This was his favorite mode of reaching the heart.

On most of these occasions, Adèle went to the Grove. It varied her monotonous life. The strange, motley crowd gathered under the magnificent trees, sitting on the ground, or standing in groups beneath the tall arches made by the overlapping boughs; the level rays of the declining sun, bringing out, in broad relief, their grotesque varieties of costume; the gradual creeping on of the sobering twilight; the alternating expressions of emotions visible on the countenances of the listeners, made the scene striking to her observing eye.

Another burning, dusty day had culminated. It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon. Mr. Norton was lying upon a lounge in Mr. Brown's apartment. Both gentlemen appeared to be in a meditative mood. The silence was only interrupted by the unusual sound of an occasional sigh from the missionary.

"Why! friend Norton;" at length exclaimed Mr. Brown, "have you really lost your cheerfulness, at last?"

"Yes", replied Mr. Norton, slowly. "I must confess that I am wellnigh discouraged respecting the reformation of this people. Here, I have been preaching to them these weeks the gospel of love, presenting Christ to them as their friend and Saviour, holding up the truth in its most lovely and winning forms. It has apparently made no impression upon their hearts. It is true, they come in crowds to hear me, but what I say to them makes no permanent mark. They forget it, the moment the echo of my voice dies upon their ears. The fact is, friend Brown, I am disappointed. I did hope the Lord would have given this people unto me. But", continued he, after a moment's pause, "what right have I to be desponding? God reigns".

"According to all accounts", replied Mr. Brown, "they must be a hard set to deal with, both mentally and morally. I should judge, from what Miss Adèle tells me of your instructions, that you have not put them upon the same rigid regimen of law and truth, that you may remember you prescribed for my spiritual cure". Mr. Brown smiled. "Perhaps", he continued, "these men are not capable of appreciating the mild aspect of mercy. They do not possess the susceptibility to which you have been appealing. They need to have the terrors of the law preached to them".

"Ah! that is it, friend Brown, you have it. I am convinced it is so. I have fell it for several days past. But I do dislike, extremely, to endeavor to chain them to the truth by fear. Love is so much more noble a passion to enlist for Christ. Yet they must be drawn by some motive from their sins. Love often follows in the wake and casts out fear".

"I remember", said Mr. Brown, "to have heard Mr. N——, the famous Maine lumber-merchant, who you know is an infidel, say that the only way the lumbermen can be kept from stealing each other's logs, is by preaching to them eternal punishment".

"No doubt it is true", replied the good man, "and if these souls cannot be sweetly constrained into the beautiful fields of peace, they must be compelled into them by the terrors of that death that hangs over the transgressor. Besides, I feel a strong presentiment that some great judgment is about to descend upon this people. All day, the thought has weighed upon me like an incubus. I cannot shake it off. Something terrible is in store for them. What it may be, I know not. But I am impressed with the duty of preaching a judgment to come to them, this very afternoon. I will do it".

A slight rattling of dishes at the door announced the arrival of Bess, with a tray of refreshment for Mr. Brown, and, at the same moment, the tinkling of a bell below, summoned Mr. Norton to the table.

Half an hour later, the missionary, with a slow pace and the air of one oppressed with a great burden, walked to the Grove. He seated himself on a rustic bench and with his head resting on the trunk of an immense elm, which overshadowed him, sat absorbed in earnest thought, while the people gathered in a crowd around him.

At length, the murmuring voices were hushed into quiet. He rose, took up his pocket Testament, read a portion of the tenth chapter of Hebrews, offered a prayer, and then sang in his trumpet tones, Charles Wesley's magnificently solemn hymn, commencing,—

"Lo! on a narrow neck of land
 'Twixt two unbounded seas, I stand
Secure! insensible!"

He then repeated a clause in the chapter he had just read to them. "If we sin wilfully after that we have received a knowledge of the truth, there remaineth no more sacrifice for sins, but a certain fearful looking for of judgment and fiery indignation, which shall devour the adversaries".

He began his discourse by reminding the people of the truths he had presented to them during the weeks past. He had told them faithfully of their sinfulness before a holy God, and pointed out the way of safety and purification through a crucified Saviour. And he had earnestly sought to induce them, by the love this Saviour bore them, to forsake their transgressions and exercise trust in Him. He now told them, in accents broken with grief, that he had every reason to fear they had not followed his counsel, and observing their hardness of heart, he felt constrained to bring them another and different message,—a message less tender, but coming from the same divine source. He then unfolded to them the wrath of the Most High, kindled against those who scorn the voice of mercy from a dying Saviour.

They listened intently. His voice, his manner, his words electrified them. His countenance was illumined with an awful light, such as they had not before witnessed there. His eye shot out prophetic meanings. At the close, he said, in a low tone, like the murmur of distant thunder, "what I have told you, is true,—true, as that we stand on this solid ground,—true, as that sky that bends above us. This book says it. It is, therefore, eternal truth. I have it impressed upon my mind, that a judgment, a swift, tremendous judgment, is about to descend upon this people on account of their sins. I cannot shake off this impression, and, under its power, I warn you to prepare your souls to meet some dreadful calamity.

I know not how it will come,—in what shape, with what power. But I feel that death is near. It seems to me that I see many before me, who will soon be beyond the bounds of time. I feel constrained to say this to you. I beg you prepare to meet your God".

When he ceased, a visible shudder ran through the multitude. They rose slowly and wended their way homeward, many with blanched faces, and even the hardiest with a vague sense of some startling event impending.

CHAPTER XIV.

"Never fear, ma mère. You shall hear it. I have a plan that will soon take us all to Picardy. You smile, but do I not accomplish my little schemes? Do not ask me, please, how I shall do it. The expedition is not wholly matured".

"Not wholly matured, indeed!" said Mrs. Dubois, with an incredulous smile.

"Nevertheless, it will take place, ma mère. But not this week. In the mean time, I am going to invite the gentlemen, who are doubtless moping in Mr. Brown's room, as we are here, to come in and examine that curiously illuminated missal of yours. How agreeable Mr. Brown is, now that he is getting well! Don't you think so? And Mr. Norton is as good and radiant as a seraph! No doubt, they are pining with homesickness, just as you are, and will be glad of our society".

Adèle left the room, and soon returned, accompanied by the two individuals, of whom she had gone in search.

She placed Mr. Brown, who looked quite superb in his brilliantly flowered dressing-gown, in a corner of a sofa. Having examined the missal with interest, for a time, he handed it to Mr. Norton, and was soon engaged in an animated conversation with Mrs. Dubois, respecting various works of ancient art, they had both seen in Europe.

Adèle watched with pleasure the light kindling in her mother's eyes, as she went back, in memory and thought, to other days.

Mr. Norton gazed at his friend Brown, transfigured suddenly from the despairing invalid, who had lost all interest in life, to the animated being before him, with traces indeed of languor and disease upon his person, but glowing now with life, thought, and emotion. "A precious jewel gathered for the crown of Him, who sits on the throne above", he whispered to himself.

Felicitating himself with this thought, he divided his attention between the conversation of Mrs. Dubois and Mr. Brown, and the marvels of skill, labor, and beauty traced by the old monk upon the pages before him.

"I must say, Miss Adèle, that these lines and colors are put on most ingeniously. But I cannot help thinking those ancient men might have been better employed in tracing the characters of divine truth upon the hearts of their fellow-beings".

"True", said Adèle, "had they been free to do it. But they were shut up from the world and could not. Illuminating missals was far better than to pass their lives in perfect idleness and inanition".

"Don't you think, my dear", said the missionary, who had wisely never before questioned any member of the family on the points of religious faith, "that the cloister life was a strange one to live, for men who professed to have the love of God in their hearts, with a whole world lying in sin around them, for a field to labor in?"

"Yes, I do, and I think too many other things are wrong about the Roman Church, but it pains my mother to hear me speak of them", said Adèle, in a low tone, glancing at her mother.

"Is it so?" exclaimed the good man. His face lighted up with a secret satisfaction. But he fixed his eyes upon the book and was silent.

Just then, some one knocked on the parlor door. Adèle opened it and beheld Mrs. McNab,—her broad figure adorned with the brilliant chintz dress and yellow bandanna handkerchief, filling up the entire doorway, and her face surrounded by the wide, full frill, its usual framework, expressing a curious mixture of shyness and audacity.

It was her first call at the house, since Adèle's summary process of ejection had been served upon her, and it was not until that young lady had welcomed her cordially and invited her to come in, that she ventured beyond the threshold. She then came forward, made a low courtesy, and seating herself near the door, remarked that Bess was not below, and hearing voices in the picture parlor, wishing to hear from the patient, she had ventured up.

"An' how do ye find yersel' Mr. Brown?" said she, turning to that gentleman. "But I needna ask the question, sin' yer looks tell ye're amaist weel".

Mr. Brown assented to her remark upon his health, and expressed to her his obligations for her attentions to him during his illness.

"Them's naethin;" she replied with a conscious air of benevolence. "'Tis the buzziness o' my life to tak' care o' sick bodies".

"How are Mrs. Campbell's children?" inquired Mrs. Dubois.

"All got weel, but Katy. She's mizerble eneugh".

"Has she not recovered from the measles, Mrs. McNab?"

"The measles are gone, but sunthin' has settled on her lights. She coughs like a woodchuck. An' I must be a goin', for I tole Mrs. Cawmell, I wadna stay a bit, but wad come back, immediate".

As she rose to go, she caught a sight of several objects on the lawn below, that rooted her to the spot.

"Why ther's Mummychog", she exclaimed, "leading a gran' black charger, wi' a tall brave youth a walkin' by his side. Wha can he be?"

At that moment a low, clear laugh rang out upon the air, reaching the ears of the little company assembled in the parlor.

At the sound, Mr. Brown's pale face changed to a perfectly ashen hue, then flushed to a deep crimson. He started to his feet, and exclaimed, "John Lansdowne! brave fellow!"

It was even so. John and Cæsar had reached their destination.

CHAPTER XV.

"Ah! well—. I've had some experience while passing up and down in these parts. In some localities, the country is pretty well populated", said Mr. Norton with a broad smile.

"I can certify to that geographical fact", said John, laughing. "One night, after retiring, I found that a large and active family of mice had taken previous shares in the straw cot furnished me. A stirring time, they had, I assure you. The following night, I was roused up from a ten horse-power slumber, by a little million of enterprising insects,—well,—their style of locomotion, though irregular, accomplishes remarkable results. By the way, I doubt that story of a pair of fleas, harnessed into a tiny chariot and broken into a trot".

"So do I," said Mr. Norton. "'Tis a libel on them. They couldn't go such a humdrum gait".

"That reminds me", said Mr. Somers, "of a very curious and original painting I saw in England. It represented the ghost of a flea".

"Ridiculous!" exclaimed John. "You are romancing, Ned".

"I am stating a fact. It was painted by that eccentric genius, Blake, upon a panel, and exhibited to me by an aquaintance, who was a friend of the artist".

"What was it like?" said John.

"It was a naked figure with a strong body and a short neck, with burning eyes longing for moisture, and a face worthy of a murderer, holding a bloody cup in its clawed hands, out of which it seemed eager to drink. The shape was strange enough and the coloring splendid,—a kind of glistening green and dusky gold,—beautifully varnished. It was in fact the spiritualization of a flea".

"What a conception!" exclaimed Mr. Norton. "The artist's imagination must have been stimulated by intense personal sufferings from said insect. The savage little wretch. How did you manage the diet, Mr. Lansdowne?" continued the missionary, a smile twinkling all over his face.

"Ah! yes, the table d'hote. I found eggs and potatoes safe, and devoted myself to them, I was always sure to get snagged, when I tried anything else".

"Verily, there is room for improvement in the mode of living, among His Majesty's loyal subjects of this Province. I should say, that in most respects, they are about half a century behind the age", said Mr. Norton.

"How did you ascertain I was here, John?" inquired Mr. Somers.

"I learned at Fredericton that you had left with Mr. Dubois, and I obtained directions there, for my route. Really", added John, "you are fortunate to have found such an establishment as this to be laid up in".

"Yes. God be thanked for the attention and care received in this house and for the kindness of this good friend", said Mr. Somers, laying his hand affectionately on the missionary's arm.

"But this Mummychog", said John, breaking into a clear, musical laugh, "that I came across last night. He is a curiosity. That, of course, isn't his real name. What is it?"

"He goes by no other name here", replied Mr. Norton. "I met him", said John, "a few rods from here", and asked him if he could inform me where Mr. Dubois lived. "Well, s'pose I ken", he said. After waiting a few minutes for some direction, and none forthcoming, I asked, "will you have the goodness to show me the house, sir?" "S'pose you hev particiler business there", he inquired. "Yes. I have, sir". "Well! I s'pose ye are goin' fur to see hur?"

"Hur!" I exclaimed, my mind immediately reverting to the worthy ancient, who assisted Aaron in holding up the hands of Moses on a certain occasion, mentioned in the old Testament. "Hur! who is Hur? I am in pursuit of a gentleman,—a friend of mine. I know no other person here". "O well! come then; I'll show ye". As he was walking along by Cæsar's side, I heard him say, apparently to himself, "He's a gone 'un, any way".

"He is a queer specimen", said Mr. Norton. "And now I think of it, Mr. Somers, Micah told me this morning, that a good horse will be brought into the settlement, by a friend of his, in about a week. He thinks, if you like the animal, he can make a bargain and get it for you".

"Thank you for your trouble about it, my dear sir", replied Mr. Somers.

"Two weeks then, Ned", said John, "before the Doctor will let you start. That will give me ample opportunity to explore the length of the Miramichi River. What are the fishing privileges in this region?"

"Fine,—remarkably good!" said the missionary.

In the course of a few minutes, John, with the assistance of Mr. Norton, arranged a plan for a fishing and hunting excursion, upon which, if Micah's services could be obtained, he was to start the next day.

After inquiring for the most feasible way of transmitting a letter, he retired to relieve the anxiety of his parents by informing them of the success of his journey. As might have been expected, after a somewhat detailed account of his travels, the remainder of his epistle home was filled with the effervescence of his excitement at having found Mr. Somers, and thus triumphantly accomplished the object of his expedition.

Beneath the flash and foam of John's youthful spirit, there were depths of hidden tenderness and truth. He was warmly attached to his uncle. The difference in age between them was not great, and even that, was considerably diminished by the peculiar traits of each. John possessed the hardier features of character. He had developed a strong, determined will and other granite qualities, which promised to make him a tower of defence to those that might shelter themselves beneath his wing. These traits, contrasting with his own, Mr. Somers appreciated and admired. They imparted to him a strengthening influence. John, on the other hand, was charmed with the genial disposition, the mobile and brilliant intellect of his uncle, and the ready sympathy he extended him in his pursuits. In short, they were drawn together in that peculiar, but not uncommon bond of friendship, symbolized by the old intimacy of the ivy and the oak.